


I dreamed of you

by ChocoNut



Series: Many ways to say I love you [92]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Across seasons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28129641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Jaime dreams of her. Not just once.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Many ways to say I love you [92]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1234904
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	I dreamed of you

**Author's Note:**

> I might be repeating this title, but I didn't know what else to call this impulsive little piece.  
> Thanks so much for reading!

“Why did you lie to them about the sapphires?”

Jaime leans back against the tree, shuts his eyes for a moment. The pain is killing him, and adding to his ordeal are the horrors that had visited him in the kingdom of his mind. He shivers, not just from his agony but the memory of her screams that had ripped through the night—for real, not long back, and inside his head that afternoon when he’d lain for an hour to rest.

The wench looks on, her gaze plunging into his eyes in search of valid reasons. A handful of excuses, he aims to hurl at her, to unleash upon her his poisonous tongue like he always has, whipping her with everything petty and mocking he can think of.

But then, the visions are a stab to his chest. They restrain the nasty words in his head, persuading him to hold back. 

“I dreamed of you,” he slurs, instead, opting for the naked truth. “I dreamed of the terrible fate you might have suffered at their hands.”

Her eyes are still on his, but it is like she has donned a fresh pair—or, perhaps, it is a fresh perspective she regards him with. “You have my gratitude,” she says, her tone as gentle as his.

The sincerity in her voice and the softness in her eyes are no means to heal his pain, but they will be there to soothe him, will remain with him.

+++++

They walk out of Locke’s lair, free as the ravens roaming the skies, but the tension that floats alongside them binds his tongue, haunting the air around them, and a covert glance at her tells him she’s lost for words, too.

As he leaves them behind, he can make out her former captors jeering, swearing, shouting out threats no lady must be made to hear, but even over the chaos, her heavy breathing, he can sense, the way she softly winces whenever she turns telling him those cuts are nastier than they appear to be.

A few more paces, it takes, a few more secret tilts of his head to read her, to try and perceive what he’s feeling, and then he can bear this silence no more.

“My lady—” 

“You were well away,” she says, before he can speak. “Why come back?”

No insults, no mockery, nothing comes to mind this time—nothing except the visions of the hapless woman locked up in chains clad in the same tattered rags he’d left her in, the terrors those men are and not just the beast they’d thrown her to.

“I dreamed of you,” he tells her this time, too. “I dreamed you may not have many breaths left if I left you behind with these animals.”

Blues eyes, bright and shining, are upon him though, today, she doesn't put her appreciation to words.

Her recognition for the man he is, he’s grateful for, but is that all his heart craves?

+++++

He hands it to her, and with it, a part of himself. “It’s yours.”

“I can’t—”

“You’ll use it to protect Ned Stark’s daughters,” he insists, striking down her objection. “I have something else for you—” He leads her to the side, uncovers the suit of armour that goes with her lovely eyes.

She stares, transfixed, unaware his mind is full of her.

“I hope I got your measurements right,” he goes on, and when a blush adorns her cheeks as she acknowledges his gifts, he knows his heart no longer lies in his possession.

When she murmurs a soft, “Why?”, all that swims in his head are those bright blue eyes shining with success, basking in the satisfaction of fulfilling a vow to a dead woman.

“I dreamed of you,” is his honest admittance as has been before. “I dreamed you will rise to everything you strive to achieve.”

This time, again, she doesn’t reply, but how highly she regards him, he can see in those eyes.

When she gives him her word, promises to restore his honour, an ache deep within him, she leaves behind.

+++++

 _My lady,_ he begins, putting quill to parchment the only remedy to his anxiety. 

_I hear you’re in Winterfell, the lair of the enemy—the ones that once so ruthlessly lay a hand on your honour with no value to your life._

The past returns to haunt him, and with those memories come a wordless prayer on his lips to the gods he doesn’t believe in, the realization of how much he yearns to see her again.

_Tread carefully, Brienne, is all I must say._

He pauses, thinks back at what’s keeping him up this late in the night.

 _I dreamed of you,_ he writes on, _dreamed you might land in trouble again. Take this as a warning, take care, and be aware that Sansa’s life is not above yours._

He stops again, absorbs his fears spread out in writing.

He sits back, sighs, knowing despite his attempt, the stubborn wench will throw caution to the wind and do all it takes to honour her oath. 

He knows she isn’t aware that her life is valued by someone who can dream of nothing but her.

What is worse than anything else is that he can't bring himself to tell her that yet.

+++++

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” he wishes aloud, when she expresses a possibility of their swords clashing in battle.

A flicker of a smile emerges like the sun from behind the clouds, banishing her sombre expression, banishing the darkness inside him. “You dreamed of that, too?”

He agrees with a tilt of his head. “I dreamed that you and I—” Words come gushing from his heart, but when he’s reminded of their present situation, he knows the details of his dream can never make it to his lips.

Her fingers curling around the lion that’s privileged to be hers, she waits, every gentle stroke she graces it with making him wish he shared its good fortune. 

“I dreamed of better days,” he answers her inquisitive eyes, simplifying it so she doesn’t suspect there’s more to it.

When she strides out of the tent, the sweet memory of what is not real—what can _never_ be real, is all that’s left with him.

+++++

His dreams, he realizes, he can no longer keep to himself anymore. His longing to bring them to some form of confession, however, breaks down before he can even begin to attempt it.

“This goes beyond houses,” he says, turning to the one he’s fucked loyalty for. But that is all he can get to, his nerve failing to work with him when all he wants is to rush to her and make it known.

Compliments, he showers her with, when he finally works up the courage to walk up to her, but beyond that, he cannot express, except the frustration when she misunderstands him, takes his nervousness for an intent to insult her.

“I came to Winterfell because—”

It is at this he falters again, and when he collects himself enough to go on, he lays, instead of his heart before her, his sword at her command. 

She looks like she’s about to say something, but like him, something holds her back. And when she walks away leaving him to deal with the disappointment of his failure, something inside him—no, every inch of him screams out, _Not this time._

He bolts after her, and when he finds her by herself at the deserted Great Hall, he slows down, strings the words together in his mind before he can present them to her. 

With every step he takes towards her, his frantic heart calls out her name, pleads with him not to back out this time.

“Ser Jaime.” She’s not exactly startled by his presence. Flustered, yes, but her face tells him she’s been expecting him to follow. 

“I—” he pants, wiping his hand on his breeches. “I came to Winterfell because—”

“You dreamed of me?” she asks, the torch-flames dancing away merrily in her eyes.

“Yes,” he whispers, and takes her hand. 

Jaime says no more. His kiss takes care of the rest of his confession. 


End file.
